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The love of my life is hiding in Paris

I’m in Paris and I’m pretty sure the love of my life is here, too.

His name is Etienne or Henri or something else that only sounds good in a French accent, and he wears a man-bun that I love to hate. He might not want kids but he owns his favorite book in every language (he got them from each country he’s visited, obviously). He’s the still pull out my chair and always (ALWAYS) take out the trash kind of traditional, but could be found cooking dinner on a rare night. Of course, I won’t eat it. I don’t like his cooking.

I’m moving to Germany!

Who’s surprised? Anyone? Anyone at all?

After my last big move—NYC to Melbourne, Australia in 2013—I told myself that I was done for a while. It was time for me to ignore the tiny (screaming) voice in my brain, the constant hum of gogogo, to settle down, and focus on my career.

Now, just three years later, I’m proud to say that I’ve gotten my foot in the door of the publishing industry. Not only have I published 2 novels, but I’ve also had the opportunity to work for both small and large publishing houses. Even better, I’ve launched New York City Writers Network, which is growing more every day. I’ve accomplished so much and I’ve learned even more—now it’s time to drop everything and gogogo.

Cover Reveal: LIKE THE RED SKY AT MORNING

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Like the Red Sky at Morning: coming October 27, 2015!

Like the Red Sky at Morning: Coming Soon

I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. Which do you want to hear first?

#TBT: Oil & Water

Here’s a scene from a book I started back in 2008 or ’09. It was a YA about Christian, a black girl with a screwed up past and Abel, a white guy who doesn’t have much hope for the future. They meet, fall in love, and, well…you know. A novel happens.

 I only got halfway through about three different versions of it before I put the manuscript down and never picked it up again. I still like going back and skimming through it, though. Below is one of my favorite scenes. 

#TBT: His favorite things.

As I’m sure just about every writer does, I have a TON of random, under-developed, unfinished pieces of writing stored on my computer (& in my phone, in my iPad, in countless flash drives…), so in the spirit of #ThrowbackThursday, here’s an an excerpt from an old, forgotten idea.

CHAPTER 1: Solitude of a Birdcage

Shame woke her.

The heat of it rolled through her, an explosion that started in the pit of her stomach and ricocheted off of her organs. In the dark haze between sleep and consciousness, she’d seen Van, her best friend. She’d heard Van’s voice, saying it was okay to cry, felt Van’s fingers wrap tightly around hers and squeeze.

Sitting straight up in her bed, she turned to the figure that lay beside her. Isaac stirred and reached for her, his hand falling on the empty pillow beside him. Even through the darkness, she could see his eyes flutter open. “Maxie,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

CHAPTER 2: Solitude of a Birdcage

THEN

Maxie was high. As high as a kite, as a comet, as high as something even higher than a comet. It was Christmas evening and she plodded down a snow covered sidewalk of New York City, her hands lodged in her pockets, her wool hat pulled low over her face, nearly covering her eyes. The freezing wind blew fiercely, whipping her hair across her cheeks and sending icy chills up her spine that made her whole body shudder. Yet, somehow, it didn’t bother her.

Chapter 3: Solitude of a Birdcage

NOW

Maxie sat on the couch, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. She felt outside of herself, as if she were floating above the room, watching the herd of detectives, policemen, paramedics, medical examiners, and even lawyers swarming around her apartment. She just sat on the couch, finally clothed, but still covered in dried blood.

Isaac’s blood.

Chapter 4: Solitude of a Birdcage

THEN

Alex was a good kisser. The best kisser, actually. He didn’t do too much, nor too little. There was always the right amount of moisture. He always knew what to do with his hands. Sometimes he kissed Maxie gently and slowly, running his fingers through her hair, pulling back every few minutes to look at the emotion in her expression, in her eyes. Other times, he was hungry and aggressive. He’d kiss her with longing and fervency, holding her body impossibly close to his, exploring her as if he didn’t have enough hands to touch enough of her at once.

Tonight was one of those nights.